


A Different Version of Events

by stagepageandscreen



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Multi, Mystery, Slow Burn, Thriller, like...so much, my hypothosis was basically to see what two extra years of life would do to the Barricade Boys, worked out pretty well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagepageandscreen/pseuds/stagepageandscreen
Summary: What if the 1832 June Rebellion never took place? It's now late in 1834 and Julien Enjolras is losing faith in his cause and the loyalty of his friends. But then the unexpected appearance of a young woman has an irreversible effect on not only his life, but on the lives of the Amis. She is not a cause, but a trigger, a trigger that will set off a very different version of events.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an epic piece of fanfiction I finished a few years ago after working on it for two or more years. I've come back to it with some slightly improved writing skills and am currently giving it an overhaul. Figured now was as good a time as ever to finally get around to cross posting it to here. So, an ending is guaranteed when you start reading - the only wait will be while I edit chapters.  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!  
> Libz xx

 

_15_ _th_ _October, 1834_

In Saint-Michel most of the buildings were dark, shutters closed against the night like sets of tired, heavy eyelids. Just off from a small market square, closed until the next morning, was a street, roughly cobbled, a thin stream of foul water running down the cracked gutter at the side. The dim flickering of tallow candles from weak slivers that slipped between wooden shutters was the only light here, gleaming off puddles standing in the street.

It was not quiet; it was never quiet here. Raucous laughter from bars and one-room hovels, family fights, and the crying of babies drifted through paper-thin walls, but the street was empty, save for a few hollow-faced strangers with no place at all to call home. They curled, wrapped in filthy rags, into nooks and corners, invisible but for the occasional gleam of their eyes.

The central focus of the street was a rickety, lopsided building which had seen better days. Unlike the other houses, lights blazed from every window and the sounds of revelry were louder. The rough babble rose and fell as the door was opened and closed by people coming and going. The milky green paint of the sign was faded and the yellow lettering was chipped, but the name was still visible: Le Café Musain.

Sound exploded from the café as the doors open once more, allowing a figure to escape the crush of bodies.

It was a man, tall and lean, with a mess of greasy blonde curls. His clothes hung, scarecrow-like, off his body, and the sleeves of his threadbare burgundy coat sat just above his wrists. A leather satchel hung across his body, fastened with thick buckles, and he carried a thick cane of dark wood with a heavy brass handle. He gripped it tightly, peering out into the dark.

An upper window opened and someone, his voice merry with drink, shouted down.

"Good night _,_  Enjolras, sweet Enjolras! We shall meet again tomorrow."

The man in the street, who was Enjolras, looked up. His eyes were cobalt in the light from the café, darkening further as he narrowed them at his serenader. "Good night, Courfeyrac," he said, waving briefly, distractedly, up at the window. He then turned up his collar and gripped his cane tighter before setting off down the street.

The breeze had a bite to it, bringing the smell of cold and rain to the stench of Paris. A weak moon shone between buffeting clouds, flicking the world into a light dark swirl of shadow. Enjolras watched them carefully, tracking the ones that seemed the most solid, the ones that risked being desperate people with knives and clubs. That he had nothing of real value on him would mean little. For the sweepings of the street, hidden under the rug of St. Michel, everything was worth something.

The wind blew again, dispelling the patch of shadow he was sure had been a mother and child curled by a wall. The cold sliced through to his back like a whip and he shuddered. He was a child of the Cote d'Azure, fields of lavender and trips to the warm sea filling his bones. Even after living in Paris for nearly eight years, the coming of winter still shocked him. He would have to buy a new coat before winter, an expense he could not necessarily afford. The generous stipend from his father – a hopeless bribe to bring him home again – had shrunk dramatically since news of Enjolras' rebellious ambitions had reached his parents. He curled in on himself, shoulder blades pushing through the fabric.

He paused at the end of the street, his hand reaching out to brush the dank wall almost tenderly. Here was where they were going to raise a barricade. Here they were going to change the world. June, 1832 – it was a year that was going to be historic.

That was over two years ago.

Brushing the grit off on his faded black breeches, he kept walking.

Their inspiration, their voice in government, General Lamarque, had fallen dangerously ill that summer with cholera. It was a make or break moment for their rebellion, a spark that could have been harnessed to create an explosion. But Lamarque had recovered, though much weakened in both body and position, and the plans of Enjolras and his comrades had never gone into action.

Maybe it had been for the best?

It was a thought so intrusive and foreign he stopped moving, blinking in the thick dark of an alley's mouth. From further down the black stretch, he heard splashing, like footsteps in water. He squinted, hand tightening on his cane, but his vision was struggling to adjust fast enough.

The woman hit his shoulder hard, his only warning the glow of the whites of her eyes. She was running and the force knocked them both to the ground. Enjolras lost his cane into the thick mud at the base of the buildings and he scrambled for it, heart pounding, expecting another blow from behind or the side. He found it and grabbed the shaft with one hand and the handle with the other, twisting and pulled sharply upwards to reveal an inch of the polished steel sword hidden inside.

The woman was still lying on the floor, her breathing ragged, but upon hearing the  _snick_ of the sword being drawn she sprang to her feet. He got the impression of wide, terrified eyes and wild hair and then she was gone, running as fast as she could in the direction of the Musain.

Hearing heavy, splashing footsteps coming down the alley the woman had appeared from, Enjolras tucked himself into a doorway, sword still partly drawn. His breath sounded horrifically loud and the slight rattle of his teeth, to him, like a platoon of iron-shod cavalry riding over cobblestones.

Enjolras didn't see the man, for he was sure it was a man, but felt the sheer size of him from the disruption of the air. There was a smell like old sweat, sewage, and harsh tobacco, and then he was gone. For such a big man, he was fast.

A sharp scream, coming from the direction the odd pair had gone, sliced through the dark while Enjolras was still tucked into the doorway. It dipped into silence briefly and then soared again in staccato fragments.

Before he could question his choice, Enjolras ran towards the sound, sword fully drawn in one hand and the cane shaft clutched like a club in the other. Above him a cracked shutter creaked open to show a face lit by candlelight peering out. At the third scream and the glint of moonlight off Enjolras' sword, it swiftly closed again. This final, ominous cry guided him to an alley he would normally avoid at all costs. It was the kind of alley people would disappear into and come out the other side robbed, raped, or beaten up; regularly all three.

He glanced up the street to where the Musain was still brightly lit, music dripping from its windows, but it seemed no one inside had heard anything. Gritting his teeth, he turned his gaze to the yawning dark of the alley and stepped into it, weapons at the ready.

The blow came from behind even before his eyes had adjusted to the dark. A fist like a barrel crashed into the back of his head, sending bright lights across his vision as he dropped to his hands and knees. Both sword and cane fell from his suddenly numb hands and then a boot connected with his ribs. The kick drove a shout from him as he arced into the moulding brick and wood of the alley's side.

Through the shock and pain Enjolras only caught a brief impression of the man's size before a second kick exploded the air from his lungs. The breath he drew sounded more like a sob and he vainly scrabbled through the muck with one hand for the cane or sword or  _something_.

Then there was another yell and a brief scuffle and the hulking shadow was replaced by several different ones all crowded together and a familiar hand grasped his shoulder.

"Enjolras?" It was Combeferre, a lantern in hand, the candle's flame bouncing off his neat spectacles. "Enjolras, can you hear me?"

Enjolras nodded, hand clamped over his stomach, speaking in shards as he tried to breathe. "How'd – how'd you know?"

Combeferre gestured with the lantern towards a scrawny and ragged boy of about fifteen hovering a few feet away. "Gavroche was coming back from an errand for Bahoral and heard you shout."

Nodding his thanks to the urchin Enjolras pointed further into the alley, "I think – there's a woman – she's probably hurt." He found both sword and cane, each covered in mud. After carefully wiping the blade clean on his thigh, he slid the sword away.

"I've found her!" It was Grantaire's voice, for once not slowed by drink.

Despite Combeferre's protests, Enjolras dragged himself upright with his cane and limped to where Grantaire waited. Combeferre followed, crouching to let the light fall fully onto the woman.

Her face was smeared in blood from scrapes and a split lip; her dress was filthy and torn in several places. Her skin, likely to be a warm nutmeg-tone in health, was washed pale except for one eye already swelling into a dark purple. Most alarming was the rapidly growing patch of red spreading across the left side of her chest.

"She dead?" Gavroche peered over Combeferre's shoulder. His gaze was almost impassive and Enjolras wondered how many times he had been exposed to a scene like this.

Combeferre was very grave. "We need to get her somewhere I can examine her better." He glanced around the alley in disgust. "Somewhere clean."

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras. "You live close, don't you?"

"I do," Enjolras said, glancing between his friends, "and since Combefere moved out nearer to the hospital there's a spare bed."

"We need to hurry," Combeferre said. He passed the lantern to Enjolras and then removed his cravat. With careful fingers, he plucked at the sodden dress until the tear lifted from the stab wound. He pulled it wider and stuffed his bundled cravat into the gap before pressing firmly. The action elicited an involuntary jerk of pain from the woman.

"I'll carry her," Grantaire said, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her.

Enjolras glared at him. "Can you walk straight tonight?"

For once, Grantaire did not give a sarcastic or nonchalant reply. His bluish-green eyes stared coolly back at the blond leader as he rolled up his sleeves.

"As gallant as you may be, Apollo, you look like you can barely carry yourself right now. Gavroche can't. Ferre will need to lead the way and hold the light. That leaves me. Besides, I've done much harder things a lot less sober. Once I won a winner-takes-all fencing tournament while drunk off my ass." He carefully gathered the still, blood-soaked form into his arms. "This will be easy."

As the group departed, Enjolras muttering dire warnings to Grantaire about calling him Apollo, a shadow detached itself from the wall farther up the alley.

His right hand was stained with blood, along with the front of his long, dark coat. He was not unduly worried about the rescue. If the blow to her head didn't kill the girl, the stab wound and the filth would. It would take a miracle and he didn't believe in those.

Turning away, he disappeared back into the gloom, a bringer of Death, his work for the night completed.

His master would be pleased.


	2. Chapter 2

The little troop hurried through the twisting Paris street as quickly as possible. Enjolras, ignoring the various aches rising in his body, had to admit that Grantaire carried the woman well. Grantaire kept his pace swift and steady, cradling the woman close to his chest, with no thought as to the blood seeping into his already tatty clothing.

The two-story house, where Enjolras rented the top floor, had maybe once been the home of some low-level bourgeoisie family. It was built of local stone,  _calcaire grossier,_  though it was scarred with smoke and water damage, the mortar between the blocks starting to rot away. Nevertheless, it's blue shutters, though faded, were kept clean and the front step was scrubbed white. To the side, rusting iron railings draped with twists of honeysuckle, ivy, and roses, suggested a neatly kept garden. The current owner was a robust, red-cheeked widow named Margo.

Enjolras was currently the only tenant of the house, and was keen to keep it that way. The lack of neighbours meant that he could remain awake all night working if he needed to, pacing to his heart's content, and keep his less than…legal activities much more private than if he lived in a busy apartment building. Up until a few months ago he had shared the decently sized set of rooms with Combeferre but, due to the demands of his medical schooling and his responsibilities at the hospital, Combeferre had chosen to move into a set of rooms closer to Necker.

As Enjolras unhooked his key from his belt Combeferre pressed two delicate fingers to the woman's throat. "There's still a pulse but it's weak." He turned to Gavroche who was hovering off to the side. "Do you know how to get to Necker from here?"

Gavroche gave him a disdainful look. "I'm the bloody king of Paris – course I know how to get there. Could do it backwards and blindfolded, couldn't I?"

Combeferrre rolled his eyes. "Just get there as quick as you can and say that Combeferre needs Dr Dupont to come to 13 Rue Victoire as fast as he can."

Gavroche tipped his filthy cap and shot off into the darkness.

Enjolras opened the door, completing the special twist and lift needed to get it to open first time. The hinges squealed alarmingly but the door opened onto the short, stone-flagged passageway lit by a candle stub sat on a three-legged table missing a leg.

Combeferre's tone was grim. "We need to get the bleeding stopped and the wound clean, quickly."

They were halfway up the first flight of curving stairs when they met the landlady, Margo, a kindly woman in her fifties, coming out of her rooms on the first floor.

"Is that you, Julien? Sounds like you brought half of Paris back with you – oh!" Upon seeing the group, and their blood-stained burden, she gasped slightly, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

"I'll stoke up the fires in the laundry room and get some water boiling," she said, directing her next comment to Combeferre. "There's fresh linen in the pine chest at the end of my bed. Take as much as you'll need. I'll boil some more downstairs."

Combeferre darted into Margo's apartment while Enjolras led Grantaire up the next flight and into his set of rooms at the top of the house.

"Put her on my bed," Enjolras said, moving to the grate to stoke some light into the low fire.

"I'm not intimately familiar with your rooms, Apollo," Grantaire said, looking at the two doors leading off the small living space. "Where exactly do you sleep?"

"Left one," Enjolras replied, lighting several candles straight from the fire. He followed Grantaire into the room with two in hand, placing on the dressing table and using the other to light the two lanterns sat on his desk.

Grantaire laid the woman down as tenderly as he could, cradling her head like a baby as he placed it onto the pillow. Combeferre appeared then, arms piled with linen. He looked around, taking in the piles of books and paper and various plates with dried out food dotted around the room.

"Clear some of this mess away, Enjolras, and get more light if you can. Do you still have the medical kit in the kitchen? The one for if we got caught in riots?"

"It's in the cabinet," Enjolras replied, sweeping books under the desk and piling up plates. "Grab it, Grantaire."

"Again," Grantaire said, wiping his bloodstained hands down his front, "not familiar with your apartment. I don't know where all your shit is."

Enjolras shoved the plates into his hands with a growl. "Fine." He hurried back out into the living space and over to the dark, chipped cabinet jammed into one corner. While he dug through various odds and ends, searching for the leather pack Combeferre had given him, Margo came into the apartment. She carried a steaming bucket in either hand.

"Your friend Joly is downstairs," she said, crossing to the bedroom. "He's got some scraggy urchin with him too."

Joly and Gavroche appeared in the doorway almost immediately after she finished speaking.

"Where's Ferre?" Joly asked, stripping off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves.

"Where's the doctor he sent for?" Enjolras asked, finally finding the pack. He rolled it open, checking all the instruments were there as well as the various bottles and bandages. Finding everything in order he held it out to Joly.

"He can't come till the morning but thankfully Gavroche had the sense to ask if I was available." Joly took the pack. "Sounds like a bit of a mess."

Enjolras shrugged. "Combeferre's worried. She's not looking good."

Joly's face took on a pinched expression and he hurried into the bedroom, brushing past Grantaire who was leaning against the doorjamb, plates still in his bloodied hands.

"Any chance I can put these down somewhere I wash this gore off me?" he asked.

Several tense hours later, Joly, Combeferre, and Margo exited Enjolras' bedroom. Each looked exhausted and blood-stained.

Gavroche had gone long ago, a five-franc piece in hand and the vestiges of Enjolras' larder in his pockets. Grantaire, after washing off the mud and blood as best he could, had searched the apartment for wine. When he hadn't found any he had simply shrugged, threw himself onto the patched chaise lounge, and promptly fallen asleep. He woke up when Joly pulled his legs out of the way to sit down.

Enjolras, who had spent the last while making grilled cheese over the fire, passed the plate around. "How bad is it?"

Joly took a bite of the toast and chewed slowly, then swallowed. "The stab wound went deep into the muscle just below her shoulder socket. Two inches different and she would have been dead before you found her."

"From the tearing of the wound it was a big knife, and not necessarily that sharp," Combeferre said, wiping grease from the corner of his mouth. "It's an ugly wound – was a pig to stitch up."

Joly frowned. "She also has some cuts on her hands and arms, probably caused by her struggling to escape the knife. Her eye is badly bruised and so is her throat."

Margo placed a comforting hand on Joly's and Combeferre's shoulder and squeezed, tears in her eyes. "That girl has been through something awful…thank goodness you two were able to do something to help her."

The two medical students ducked their heads and muttered that it was nothing really and they were only doing the decent thing.

"Be as modest as you like," Margo said, "but all of us here know that if that girl survives it's because of you two." She patted them both gently on the back then bid the small group goodnight.

The idea of the girl struggling for her life while he huddled in a doorway made Enjolras inwardly flinch. He tried to put the image out of his head as Joly began speaking again.

"It's the head wound I'm worried about." Joly ran a hand through his light brown hair, uncertain how to continue.

"There's a bad cut across the back of her head," Combeferre explained, "but we don't know how much damage it's caused. It might just be a flesh wound or it could have cracked the skull and badly damaged the brain." He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

"We need Dr Dupont, ideally, but he's not able to come until the morning." Joly leant back and closed his eyes. "He's a decent guy, believes in the same values as we do, and he's an incredible doctor. He also won't charge us a thing for something like this."

"Will she be alive by the time he arrives?" Grantaire's voice was flat and his bluntness made everyone feel vaguely uncomfortable.

Joly shrugged helplessly. "We've done the best we can. The only thing we can do now is hope."

"Ah yes," Grantaire said, snatching the last piece of toast from the plate. "A regular cure all, that is."

Enjolras saw that his friends were struggling to stay awake. "You can stay here for tonight if you wish," he offered, struggling to his feet from where he'd been sat by the fire. "One of you can have the other bed and I can find some blankets to make the floor more bearable."

Joly and Combeferre glanced at each other.

"Somebody needs to keep an eye on her, really," Combeferre said uncertainly.

"Ferre, you're nearly asleep on your feet," Enjolras said. "I can sit there with her and I'll call if there's any change."

Combeferre choked on a yawn. "Two hours," he said. "Two hours, then you wake me up to watch her."

Half an hour later, the apartment was silent except for the sound of Grantaire's snoring. Joly and Combeferre were sharing the bed, both too exhausted to do more than pull off their boots before falling asleep.

True to his word, Enjolras watched the girl for any change. He sat at his desk, one arm curled around his tender ribs, the other twirling a pen between his fingers, and studied his impromptu guest.

She was difficult to age, but her unscarred skin and broad shoulders suggested she had grown up healthy and far away from Paris. She had thick, dark brows and long hair of the same brunette shade. Her nose was pert even when slightly swollen from the black eye; her chin was sharp and gave her an almost vulpine look. He didn't know what colour her eyes were but imagined them to be in a similar palette to her hair. Laying in his bed she looked very small and ephemeral and he was surprised at the jolt of protectiveness that flashed in his chest. Feelings for women were not something he was deeply familiar with and rarely went beyond a brief spark of physical attraction that he would quickly stamp out.

Enjolras blinked quickly, not wanting to dwell on such matters right now. A murmur of movement from the bed prompted him to rise. Self-consciously, he peered down at her, feeling a little uncomfortable with their proximity when she was in such a vulnerable position. Seeing no movement, he carefully placed two fingers under her jaw, on her throat, as he had seen Combeferre do many times. Her skin was flushed with a warmth bordering on feverish but the pulse was there – irregular but still beating. He breathed a sigh of relief and shifted his gaze to her face only to find her eyes open and watching him blankly.

He'd been wrong about her eyes; they were green, a deep stunning green that reminded him of cool forests in the heat of summer. So focused was he on her eyes he barely caught her words. His eyes widened and he scrambled through the apartment to wake the medical duo.

"Joly! Ferre! Wake up, she spoke!" He shook the sleeping students roughly.

Combeferre sprawled onto the floor, arms flailing.

Joly jumped awake, yelling, " _Conjunctivitis_!"

Enjolras looked at him blankly.

Joly grinned sheepishly. "Exam coming up." He suddenly registered what his friend had said and his eyes widened. "She spoke?" he queried, stumbling through to the other bedroom. Combeferre scrambled to his feet and followed.

The girl looked so still that for a moment Enjolras feared the worst. Apparently, so did Joly as the first thing he did was check her pulse and breathing. He breathed a noticeable sigh of relief. "She's breathing, but she hasn't moved."

"Are you sure she spoke?" Combeferre asked. "What did she say?"

It took Enjolras a moment to remember the whispered words. "Angel," he said quietly, suddenly embarrassed, "She said  _'my guardian angel'_  then passed out again."

Any other time, they would have laughed at their friend being compared to an angel, although the comparison was understandable and rather apt. With his golden hair, clear blue eyes, and sharply handsome features, Enjolras really did look like one of the golden beings depicted in paintings. Now, however, Joly just frowned, "It's dawn – I'll go and get Dr Dupont."

"I'll check the wounds," Combeferre said, moving the light closer.

"She was awake for a second, I swear," Enjolras said. Although, seeing how still she was, he was starting to doubt it himself.

Joly appeared with his boots on and his jacket over his arm. "If she was it could be a good thing," he said.

"But you should get some sleep or you'll be of no use to anyone tomorrow," Combeferre said, not looking away as he peeled back the layers of bandages over the woman's shoulder.

As Joly shut the door delicately behind him and Combeferre settled down to watch the girl, Enjolras tried to sleep. Even though he was exhausted, he couldn't settle. He tried to tell himself it was because he had work left unfinished, that the lump in the mattress under his left hip bone was annoying him, or that Grantaire's snoring was at _just_  the right pitch and depth to be  _really irritating_ , but he knew it wasn't.

What was keeping him awake was the memory of a set of green eyes and a barely heard whisper calling him an angel. When he finally found sleep, it was with those eyes filling his mind.


End file.
